


All the boys in the yard

by Agent C (arh581958)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Accidental Plot, Accidental Voyeurism, Clueless!Clint, Getting together (kind of), M/M, Masturbation, Oblivious!Clint, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Voice Kink, fantasizing!Clint, pining!Clint, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5602471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Agent%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint only notices Coulson as more than a handler when he sees how Phil’s milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WitchWarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchWarren/gifts).



> Post Merry Christmas to Phlint Shippers of the world, especially [ WitchWarren ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchWarren/pseuds/WitchWarren). Thank you for this lovely prompt. I'm so sorry if it took so long. My 2k drabble exploded into a story with a (pretend) plot.

At first, Clint really didn't care to know _who_ Senior Agent Coulson was. He knew virtually nothing about the guy except for the gossip floating around in the rumour mills. Fat chance that any of that holds any truth.

Coulson was a total badass on the field.

Coulson had the best mission record in the organization's history.

Coulson scored top marks on all his evaluation tests.

Coulson was handpicked by the Director himself.

Coulson got fast-tracked the handler ladder.

Coulson picked motherfucking Daisies and gave them to the agents in medical!

Coulson---sounded more like a SHIELD fairytale rather than a real person.

By profession, Clint was a sniper first and an archer second. It wasn't often that he got to use his main weapon on choice on the field. SHIELD, and its handlers, preferred the rifle to the bow because it was--for the lack of a better term--normal in this sort of business. As a sniper, he was often far away from the action---on a roof top, in a building across the hall, lying in his stomach somewhere inexplicable cold or unbearably hot. All he knows for sure was that Coulson was _one_ of the voices in his ear.

He did not even bat an eyelash when he was introduced to his new handler. Several agonizing months after his initial recruitment, he still wasn't assigned into a regular team or a permanent handler. He has been handed off from one nameless senior agent to another. He stopped counting at number fifteen. He can't even remember her name. He was throw away not a day after the assignment because he declined to be the honey in the pot for the mission.

His new handler just so happened to be Senior Agent Phillip J. Coulson. There was nothing striking about the man from his mousy brown hair, cerulean blue eyes with the budding signs crow's feet forming at the edges, and a smile that surprisingly reached his eyes and lit up his entire face. It was like being sucker punched to the gut for Clint. The man wasn't even attractive!  He was bland--blander than bland, the kind of white plain unblemished paper type of blank that was kind of... well, boring.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Specialist." Coulson greets with a hand extended to Clint. "I look forward to working with you on the field."

And no. No one had ever referred to Clint as anything other than asset before. He was realistic in a sense because he accepted the fact that, in SHIELD's perspective, he was nothing more but a mere weapon at their disposal, another tool in their kit, another card in their deck. But this man called him _Specialist_ with a title and a tone that sounded an awfully lot like respect. It was... weird.

Clint had no clue about what to do. So he rubbed the excess sweat of his clammy palm and reached for the man's hand, shaking it in a firm but non-aggressive grip with a nod.

"Sir."

 In the corner of his eye, he spotted Fury with a curious look in their direction. He shrugged it off. He was more concerned to the fact, the clenching grip in his stomach, the pool of anxiety that was building in his gut, the realization that he wanted this man to keep him. It hit him like a cold bucket of water. Shit.

***

Over the next couple of months, he tried desperately to stay under Coulson's good graces. There was nothing overtly different about the man save that he valued positive reinforcement rather than punishment. Clint, on more than one occasion, was rewarded with an extra cup of chocolate pudding, a new purple arm-guard, and added range time. Small things but they were appreciated just the same.

He knew full-well that it did not, by any means, make him special. Coulson handled several other assets and he treated then all with the same quiet, unwaveringly calm, demeanour. So no, he often repeated to himself, he wasn't special. Coulson treated all of them with indisputable equality across the board even if they each had their differences.

***

Differences, indeed.

***

Clint learned the gravity of those difference soon enough. He might be young and pretend to be stupid half the time but he wasn't really an idiot. He came to realize exactly how _far_ Coulson and his little rewards catered to individual assets on the Op in Country Clare, Ireland, near the Cliffs of Moher.

It was a small reconnaissance turned rescue mission after they identified another team in the waters. They were successful in the recovery. Coulson sent the handler back first along with the injured for immediate medical attention. Because of the additions from the secondary team, they were forced to share a cramped safe house. Coulson sent Singh (their co-pilot) to replace Bronson while the latter rested. The second team's pilot was able to co-pilot the aircraft back to HQ.

Shared sleeping arrangements was nothing new in SHIELD. They had dorm-type bunks for lower-ranked agents in HQ. The beds in this safe house was no different: double-decks with sturdy wooden frames, firm mattresses, and lumpy pillows, but at least the blankets were warm. Or perhaps, too hot. Clint has never had a problem falling asleep after an Op. He trained his body to rest at every available instance. Unluckily for him, he also trained his body to wake up at any foreign noise.

The voice were low, whispered, as if struggling to keep quiet.  He recognized the voice as Bronson's, their primary pilot. It sounded gruff and raspy. Clint froze. They couldn't... could they? It was the SHIELD safe house. They were supposed to be _safe_. No one should be able to breach security. It took him longer than he would admit to realize what was happening below him.

"Jesus, fuck..." rasped the laboured breath. "...Coulson, come on..."

Clint's eyes snapped open. It was unmistakable now. He heard the rustling of the sheets below him and movement. Two bodies moved in the darkness. But it wasn't coming from his bunk. His eyes jolted from corner to corner of the two double-decker room. Across him, DePaul was snoring louder than usual on the top bunk. He tried to stealthily roll to his side but, still, all movement ceased. There was a thickness in the air and a tension that made him feel like choking.

Seconds felt like minute--hours even---as they trickle passed. Clint can _feel_ the pair of agents accessing the air, waiting to see if he was awake. He grunted once then made a show of rolling on his stomach, still keeping his head in their direction, and pretended he was asleep. Not a minute more and the sounds returned with renewed interest.

"Shhh" the soft yet firm voice said. "Need I remind you, agent, that we are sharing closed quarters with three other team members."

Fuck. Did he---was that---it can't possibly...?

There was a grunt and a nearly inaudible reply. "Come on, Coulson. I need you to fuck me. I'm all jittery from the manoeuvre to get them outta the water." It wouldn't have been heard if Clint wasn't actively listening for it.

Double Fuck. Clint screwed his eyes shut. He heard the bed creak a fraction. It sounded like thunder inside their mostly silent room. Not even DePaul's snoring or Gittes' teeth grinding could overcome it. He heard it as loud, and as clear, as Coulson's voice had sounded over the comms. He might have been a virgin but he was in no sense naive about what was happening.

Coulson was fucking Bronson.

He squinted his eyes open to notice Bronson scrambling onto his hands and knees. A secondary figure, Coulson his mind supplied, was kneeling near the foot of the bed. There was no mistaking the squelch of lube, Bronson's grunts, and the whine of the bed frame. He can see the white flesh of Bronson's ass and the rigid line of Coulson's---

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He closed his eyes abruptly. He didn't want to think about Coulson's c---c--. He couldn't even bear to say it inside his own mind. His traitorous inexperienced dick twitched inside his pants. Thank heavens for small mercies that he was already on his stomach. Whether it was a blessing or a curse to have something firm to grind against, pressing him against his thigh, was something to be debated upon.

With pure stubbornness and an ample amount of determination, he forced himself to sleep.

***

At first, he thought it was merely a fluke. Some sort of bizarre power-play between Coulson and Bronson. It made his gut churn and turn and go haywire at the thought. He had believed Coulson was a good man. But after the night in Ireland, he believed it no more.

In the morning, he was the last to wake up. He was jostled awake by a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Barton, it's time to get up. We move in thirty." Coulson voice roused him from sleep. It was raspy and dry, reminding him of the gruff command from yesterday. The senior agent was at perfect level with the top bunk. When he opened his eyes, he got an eyeful of Coulson's face.

His merc-day training saved him from jumping out of the bed. No man could possibly want that with another man, right? It's got to be harassment. So that's what Coulson hid underneath his demure smile and bland expressions.

His handler fucked his assets.

Clint promised himself. that he wouldn't fall for that. He sat-up slowly, like a cat, feigning his calmness. "Thanks, sir. I'll be down in five. Sorry you had to wake me."

Coulson made a non-committal hum and stepped away. He gave Clint a cursory once-over with his face filled with concern. "Is something the matter, Specialist, ehrm, Barton? You're normally either the first or second one awake. Are you feeling unwell? You didn't even budge when Gittes hit his head on your bunk." He noted, frowning.

Clint immediately shook his head. "No, sir. Everything's fine, sir." But then he chewed on his lip, stopping. The other man appeared the farthest thing from pleased. His story wasn't holding ground. "I... uhm... the thing yesterday with the human-ladder, right? Knocked a few cells, I guess..." he lied. There was the bare hint of truth because he _was_ the person who stepped-on on his head.

This time, the man believed him. "All right. I want you to pass-by medical when he get back to HQ. I'm giving the team a day for down-time." said Coulson with a nod. He spun in a perfect military pivot and walked out of the bedroom.

Clint scampered off the bed and followed.

"Rise and Shine, princess." Cochren, the asshole, greeted with a light-hearted jest. "Did Coulson give you a kiss to wake you up?" He tapped Clint on the ass for emphasis and made kissy-faces.

The archer stiffened and he felt his face burn. "N--no" he barely repressed the stutter.

"Oi!" Bronson called from somewhere in the kitchen. "That's be sexual harassment if it ain't consensual!"

Cochren snorted and tore open some crackers. "Aww, Barton a sport. Aren't you, kid?" He asks. He was the second oldest in the group and Clint was the youngest. Nearly all of them referred to him--the ex-carnie with a history--as either punk, kid, or squirt. His lack of stature was no aid to his cause.

Clint managed an uneasy laugh. "Y--yeah. It's a bro-thing, right?"

The rest of the team laugh in chorus.

***

The next time it happened was during an Op in Bucharest.

Their six-person strike team intercepted a shipment of potentially bio-hazardous components which were making their way into the black market. It was a honeypot mission with the head baddie and, lucky for Clint, their CIA import was up for the challenge.

Hand and her long red hair infiltrated the org's highest security in less than a day. She slipped with into bed and they confiscated the good the following morning. The team stayed in a local bed and breakfast for the night. It was the Romanian version of a motel. Walls were thin but food was heavenly.

He awoke to rhythmic thudding from the next room.

Two voices--a male and a female---were groaning together. There was four men and two females on their team. The room beside his was Hand's. Him aside, there were three other men.

"God, Coulson!" the female came with a shout. More banging and clanging and a vase oddly falling was heard from his neighbour. No effort was made to shush her moans.

Clint, welll, Clint was only human. The pornographic noises of his fellow peers was more action than he has in his entire life. It was no surprise that his cock perked up in interest. Living in the barracks gave him three square meals a day but no privacy given his low-ranking level. He tried rubbing one out in the showers but it was still difficult.

He palmed his erection through the thin cotton of his briefs. He'd be naked if he was at home but he has had one too many experience being forced out of bed without a stitch of clothing on after Ops. He learned his lessons. He stuck with briefs to cover his junk on field missions, at least his balls wouldn't freeze off in cold climates. His balls freezing was the last thing on his mind right now. He flesh was molten-hot to the touch.

More banging from next door.

"THERE!" came a shout "Right there, Coulson, fuck!"

Clint needed to grip the base to keep him from shooting like a pre-teen. He listened to the noises, feeling like a pervert, but it deterred him not from deriving carnal pleasure from it. For a man who spend a majority of his days waiting for Coulson to give commands on his earpiece, he can infer tons load from the audio information alone.

He knew that they weren't in a missionary position. No, the sounds were uneven and favouring the right hand-side. They were obviously on their sides. Hand was gripping the headboard, if the rhythmic banging was any indication. He can hear the bed frame jerk with each of Coulson's powerful thrusts.

"Ohhh~" he opened his mouth in a perfect circle when his thumb brushed tip peaking from his boxers.

A series of grunts soon followed but the pace was steady.

He continued down his own personal road to hell. He pulled down the cotton boxers and fisted himself properly. The friction was rough and near-painful. He wasn't one to leak so easily. But the rumblings from the other room was enough to make him salivate---Coulson's grunts and Hand's high-pitched moans. He let it pool inside his mouth then split in his open palm.

With the spin to ease the way, jerking himself off was almost routine. He knew what he liked. He knew how to drive himself to the edge quickly. He fisted his cock with fast and efficient strokes, unconsciously following the  thumping from the walls. He bit down on his bottom lip in an effort to keep silent. He couldn't--wouldn't--be able to _look_ at them in the morning.

He actively masturbated until his orgasm crested.

***

 ---without realizing just _whose_ voice had pushed him over the edge.

***

The following morning, Clint was the first one back to the Evac point with his luggage and weapons neatly stowed away in his pack. He looked for all the world like a twinky pre-teen, fresh out of college, on break.

"Hey" a perky young woman greeted with a smile. "Haven't seen you around here, you new?"

"Visiting" he quipped back but gave no inclination that he was interested in a conversation. She was persistent.

"I'm Natalia" She said with a flirtatious smile. "Who are you visiting, _stranger_?" Her accent, he can tell, was heavily East European---hard on the edges and sharp like a knife.

Clint was just about to open his mouth when another voice cut him off.

"Brent!" Coulson's voice called out to him. The man was dapper in his polished three-piece suit and suitcase filled with hidden weapons. "Vicky and I were worried sick! You were supposed to meet us at the train station!" A flare of jealousy welled up in his chest because _they came together_.

Clint quickly for the clue. He plastered a sneer, that was less fake when Hand appeared at Coulson's heels, and barked at his handler. "I would have!" he said with all the tone of a petulant child. "But you and your new girlfriend took forever to get there! I got bored!"

Coulson took him by the ear and dragged him away, saying something over his head but he couldn't hear it. All he Could focus on was the singular point of contact---two fingers on the shell of his ear---that made him hard like last night. Small blessings came in Coulson in a formal winter coat, appearing for all the world like a young but boring father. Clint noticed the fine cut, the way it moulded over the man's physique.

"Good work, agent" was whispered when they were out of earshot and he felt all his blood travel south.

"Thanks" he barely managed to mutter before they entered their designated tube. He locked himself in the first loo he could find.

***

Their cabin was empty save for Coulson when Clint returned.

"Take a seat, Agent." Coulson addressed him with impassive professionalism. He sat, legs together and feet planted firmly on the ground, with hands passively on his lap. He had removed his winter coat. It hung on the wall beside the compartment door, providing another layer of cloaking to the space. To the outside, it would look innocent enough.

Clint stiffly followed. He took the seat on the opposite corner. "Sir" he responded just as formally.  The air around them was tight. He bundled his coat over his lap. He needed something to hold on to. He watched, with perfect 20/20 vision, Coulson's rigid posture. Everything about his handler felt off. "Is there a problem, sir? You..." _you're starting to scare me_ , he did not say. "...you like you want to murder something."

"This is my resting face, Barton" Coulson deadpanned.

It was a joke. Clint knew it must have been because _that_ was _not_ Coulson's resting face. That was the senior agent's very-serious-face number 3. He managed a "heh" to break the tension. The small sound seemed to do wonders because tension bled out of Coulson's shoulders.

"I would like to apologize." his handler said, confusing Clint.

"Huh, whut?" Clint blinked without hiding his puzzlement. "I don't get it, sir. What are you apologizing for?"

Coulson hunched over, elbows resting on his knees while he cradled his jaw. "I am led to believe that you may be somewhat uncomfortable with, erhm..." he looked away with a faint colour staining his cheeks. "...last night's... post-mission activities. I was not aware of the thin walls until it was pointed out by Sitwell this morning. I am aware that you were staying in the next room."

Oh.

Clint's eyes widened. "Oh" he laughed uneasily. "That... well... uhm..." he rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment. _Sex_. Coulson was talking about the loud, randy sex which--- _he fucking jerked off to_. The blush could be felt even underneath his collar. He fingered it unconsciously, an attempt to ease some of the heat. "It was.. uhh... consensual, yeah?"

"You can't possible think that I...?" Coulson jerked back, bewildered. He shook his head fiercely. "Barton, I would never use my position to importune sexual relations with my subordinates!" His face was red. But this time, it wasn't from shyness.

"No! No! That's not what I meant!" Clint raised his hands up in defence. At that moment he had to turn away. He could not handle Coulson's blazing gaze. "I just meant that they wanted it too, right? I know you didn't force them, sir, Coulson. You're too good of a guy for that. I just..." he stared hard a the fists on his lap. "I just..."

"Just what, Barton?" Coulson nearly sneered. His voice was tight.

"I just don't understand." _Why you have to fuck them,_ he wanted to say _._

"Barton," Coulson's voice was forcibly level. "What transpires between other agents and myself is strictly private. I assure you that it happens between two consenting adults after an adrenaline-fuelled mission. Neither party is _coerced_ into participating. On the contrary..." he stopped then, and waited for Clint to look up. Their eyes met from across the small cabin space.

"As a handler, I want my agents in top form. There is nothing that I will not do for them."

"Even fuck them" Clint said, sounding brash and accusing. He bit his lip the instant it was over.

Coulson visibly straightened. "Yes" he replied mechanically. "If it is my assets' wish, then it should be so. I am perfectly capable of handling this in a professional manner."Then it was as if the air was suddenly so much more denser that Clint felt he couldn't breathe. The change in his posture was not unnoticed.

The senior agent released a heavy sigh. "I'll process your transfer papers as soon as we reach HQ." He gave Clint a pleading look. It was gone in a second like it was never there. "It would seem that this handler-asset relationship has reached its end. I believe that any mistrust on the field is unhealthy. It could cost dire consequences. Is there any handler you would prefer?"

The question caught Clint off-guard. He was unable to answer.

Couldon nodded without a hint of anger. Instead, he appeared to be dejected. "So be it. I will search for a handler who is compatible with your character traits." Then he abruptly stood up and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Clint nearly yelled. The other man froze, hand poised over his jacket. "Please" he begged with very little regard to his training as a merc, as a SHIELD agent, as a pawn. He showed Coulson exactly greatly he refused to be transferred. "Please, don't transfer me. It's my fault, sir. I was just surprised, that's all. I'm not against it or anything. I just... sex is.... in the circus we..." He never finished his sentence. He felt as pitiful, weak, and exposed, as when he was caught by SHIELD.

"Clint" Coulson's voice was unsteady. "I..." Neither of them knew who was surprised more. It was the first time that Coulson used his given name---ever. "Clint, I'm not going to force you to sleep with me. They came to me willingly. If that's not what you want, I would never subject you to it. You're far more valuable to SHIELD than my libido. I promise it won't affect how I do my job."

Clint raised his head. He was met with every ounce of determination that Phil Coulson was known for. "Promise?" It was a weak attempt at normalcy.

"Okay"

"Okay"

***

Clint would later realize how much he lost that day.

***

In the end, Coulson didn't transfer him to another handler.

***

Agents jumped at the chance to work with Coulson at least once. The rumour mills were not help to the cause at all. Everywhere he went, people said something _nice_ about Senior Agent Phil Coulson.

They came and went. One by one, agents either left, promoted, or transferred to other units within the SHIELD. Coulson climbed up the ranks of SHIELD along with Clint. He took on less agents under his wing and spent less time in the field. He mostly concentrated on larger-scaled mission planning. He also became more discreet with his post-mission activities. They were more of _extra-curricular_ now that Coulson spent most of his time in HQ.

Clint found himself _looking_ for it because he knew it was _there_. He could not get it out of his head. He knew, _he just knew_ , how Coulson treated his other assets---or the agents in his favour. He was curious but he never got the courage to ask.

It became particularly bad whenever Coulson was sent-in with the field team. Clint aimlessly listened to the sounds in the corridor, of the next room, any sort of evidence that Coulson was doing _that_ somewhere nearby. He often rubbed one out at the thought of it. He based it off previous stolen whispers and peak-a-boos---how Coulson sounded like, how he looked, how he _fucked_.

Then, in the morning, he wasn't able to look his handler in the eye. The man, thankfully, avoided him as well. They did not talk about it, their silent truce. It was a topic beyond them. They both feared that it would shake the steady balance that was build between them over the years.

Soon, it was apparent to Clint that Coulson nearly stopped all field-mission altogether. It became a rare occurence that his handler was sent into the field. Normally, he would be left in HQ while Clint joined another team. However, he never relinquished his supervision over the archer. Clint learned that he longed for the quiet grunts into the night. He yearned for the thrill of catching Coulson bedding another agent.

It was a long mission in Kenya that made him break. One of their own was killed. He blamed himself. Instead of sleeping in the barracks that night, he camped out inside the vents above Coulson's office. He heard the man idly typing away on the computer and it lulled him into sleep.

***

After that first time, it was easier. It was a routine, his own secret post-mission ritual. He climbed into the vents after a long and/or hard mission. He curled up into a ball with a thermal blanket. He listened to the listless noise from the office below.

Something about Coulson calmed him. Something about the passive smile, the non-aggressive management style, and the way his eyes _crinkled_ when he smirked drew Clint in. It was like Coulson was Clint's own version of euphoric drugs. He wanted him. He wanted Coulson.

Shit.

Clint had his hands inside his pants. He bit his other hand and tasted blood. It was all he could do from giving away his position to his handler. Below him, Coulson was having a discussion with the newly promoted agent Sitwell and discussing training manual revisions. He had unconsciously been jerking off to the sound of Coulson's voice.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

He realised with a startle that he was _hot_ for _Coulson_ and not just the thought of Coulson fucking someone. On the contrary, something welled-up in his gut at the mere thought of Coulson being with someone else. He gulped down the feelings that threatened to burst in his chest. He held on, cock in hand, wanting nothing more than to cum with Coulson's "good boy" inside his ear.

Coulson was murmuring something the proposal. "Send this to Hill for the final approval. Then we'll start this on the next rotation. Good work, agent."

Clint tasted the coppery tang on his tongue when he came.

***

Tiny miracles came with the arrival of a high-level, high-priority mission. The orders came from Director Fury himself: track-down and eliminate the KGB nuclear threat.  

Coulson led the fact-finding teams for the prep work. He was sent on a tiresome-month long excursion back to Eastern Europe in an effort to trace the organization. Meanwhile, Clint's orders were to stay in base and _train_ for the hardest mission in his career. This one would be exclusively the two of them out on the field.

Days without Coulson in SHIELD were long. Every day passed-by in a similar fashion: wake up, hit the gym, do the courses, run the obstacle, then unwind in the range. Once a week, he was given an update in the situation in Europe and tasked to sit-through a long briefing of the latest materials. He was also given additional lessons in Russian and French. Learning two new languages wasn't the worst part.

Clint loathed the nights. He lay in Coulson's empty office awake. The field reports were strewn haphazardly across the floor. He crammed himself into the too-small couch because everywhere else felt empty. It was only here, where the smell of Coulson's cologne and aftershave and sweat, that he felt at peace. The unending rattling of his mind seemed to cease.

Coulson's audio reports were saved on his tablet. At near midnight, it was the lone light that shone through the darkness of the humble space. There was no moon nor stars out tonight. He drifted his eyes close and listened to the voice of the man that brought him home after each and every mission.

"... _confirmed Cybertek technology has been found in Parma, Italy. Sightings of Dr. Demitri Yven in Piazzale della Pilotta. Yven is linked to the KBG secret force but has not been formally recognized as an ally. His primary field of specialty is cognitive reconditioning..."_

Clint listened to Coulson's stead alluring voice. All alone, the rest of the world faded into nothingness. He focused solely on the voice of the man in his ear. He knew it was unprofessional. He knew it was down-right violating to do this in his handler's office. But he had not gotten off since Coulson left two weeks ago. He was aching in his pants from the firm baritone.

"Jesus, _fuck_ , Coulson" he whispered into the night. The things weren't even remotely sexy. But he was harder now then when he tried to rub one out in the showers.

"... _Alexi Shostakov, champion test pilot for the Russian Military, has also been seen in the area. He is suspected of having ties with local terrorist organization against Russia. According to the newspapers, he is in town to visit his long-time girlfriend and recent fiancée: a ballerina by the name of Czarina Belova..."_

The man go on and on and on about the other details discovered but Clint couldn't focus on _what he was saying_ but rather on _who was saying it_.

Countless missions have given Clint enough material to work with. He'd seen Coulson without a stitch of clothing in the de-contamination showers. The flex of the muscles underneath the steady stream. He pictured how Coulson would run his hands over the chest sparsely covered in hair, the thin line leading downwards from the navel, and the patch of brown curls around his cock.

The sound of his own zipper being dragged down was deafening.

He saw, earlier on, how the man looked like when he was drenched in sweat after a mile-long foot chase. He pictured the red-flushed cheeks, damp bangs, and the shine on Coulson's forehead. His cock was at full mast in no time. He thought of Coulson's lips as he worked his shaft. He fantasized how those same lips would stretch over his girth, opening, gagging, until it kissed the base of his manhood.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been so hasty to close the door long ago. It felt like an eternity since that train ride back to Prague. They spent the rest of the time in compatible silence with Clint marvelling at the snow-covered landscape of the countryside. Perhaps, he should have just swallowed his pride and admitted that he was wrong to be judgemental and that _he wanted_ _Coulson_.

He gave his cock a firm rub-down while the other played with his balls. He can feel them tightening ever so slightly. He fucked into his fist. If Clint learned anything during all the wank-nights during the post-mission sessions, Coulson was a caring and perceptive lover. He heard all sorts of praises about how the man ravished his lover to a whiny, needy mess.

If Coulson was here, it would be perfect suction around his cockhead while deft fingers rolled up and down his shaft. The man, bless him, would have _no_ gag reflect whatsoever. He would feed Clint his fingers just like now, long pale fingers shoved up his throat making his gag with it until his eyes watered. He sucked his own fingers thinking about Coulson's knowing smirk behind his eyes.

 _"Come, agent,"_ he would say and Clint shouted his release. Come spurted from his cock like freshly popped Champagne. The orgasm hit him so hard that he painted his dark black shirt with ropey white thread of cum. A salty-bitter taste in his mouth made him aware just how far his spend had reached. He wiped the sperm from his face with a messy hand, ending in his messier than he originally intended.

"... _Further inquiry as to Belova needed. Coulson out."_

It was useless now anyway. He slumped back and let Coulson's voice lull him into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear muses, another one!
> 
> Less porny, but more plot-ty. But, their relationship progresses a bit further, so that's something.

Just his luck---

He was shipped out the next day.

***

The mission was simple but it needed a small team---a two-man strike team to be precise. As Americans, it was sketchy enough as it was to be on European soil for a virtually unknown play in other part of the world. They would play the role of rich randy business man with his boy toy out for an excursion. It entailed Clint working on a  _ honeypot _ mission of all things! Of course he was nervous, but he was the only agent who could make a difficult shot like that on the field. 

Coulson met him at the airport. 

For a moment, he was reminded of the last time they were here. His handler stood proudly tall amongst the European giants, in a crisp three-piece suit that would have the girls back home wooing over him like teenagers. He smiled big, warm, and open at Clint when their eyes met. 

Clint ducked his head shyly for a few seconds. 

"Hey daddy," he greeted with every ounce of confidence that he didn't feel. At least it wasn't some nameless mark who he needed to play in-love with. This was Coulson, his handler, the only man he trusted on the field with his life. Others have some close but not to the level of trust he had with this man.

The man's nostrils flared once. He blushed on realizing that he'd let the title slip unconsciously. 

"Welcome to Italy,  _ baby boy _ ." Coulson replied with a warm affectionate tone that went straight to Clint's groin. "I've got a town car waiting. Let's go back to the hotel." 

***

Clint expected the hotel to be half-wired with the latest SHIELD tech. Instead, he was led to an innocent-looking room without a trace of surveillance technology. 

"They're set up in another location," Coulson explained when he saw Clint's reaction. "They are under strict orders not to interfere unless we use our safe-word with our access codes. This is... a delicate mission. We've gathered intel that they have more than one sleeper operative hidden inside the town. It's best that we aren't associated with them." 

"They're also serving as a decoy, aren't they?" Clint mused without much thought. It was the obvious reason for such a separation. "Russians will be too busy looking for the bigger SHIELD team so we can go under the radar without notice. Great plan, sir."

Coulson looked taken aback. "R--right. Very good, specialist. I see that you've been reading the reports." 

"Pfft..." Clint scoffed, somewhat offended. "Of course I would. What did you think I was doing back in HQ? Sleeping around the whole time?" 

"No..." Coulson said lowly. "That's not what I meant." 

"Good," Clint replied with a sudden burst of self-confidence. He sat down on the bed, the crimson-duvet covered king bed where he would share the weekend with the man of his fantasies, with his arms crossed over his chest. "What'll we have to do? I get the mission part. It's the undercover part that I want to clarify. We'll be playing a couple, right? So much do we have to do while we're pretending to be together? I'm assuming that we want them to think we're sleeping together, right?" 

"R--right" Coulson stuttered again. This time, it led him into Clint's attention. 

"Sir?" Clint asked with concern. "You don't seem so you." 

Coulson straightened his back, the rigid lines of his shoulder made him look like a suited soldier. "I seem to recall having a conversation with... similar nature before..."

Oh. 

Clint's eyes widened. He laughed nervously. "You remembered that, huh?" He said with a shrug. "I mean... I guess, I'm fine with it... it's not really your fault, sir. They say I'm the only one who can do it. But you know how SHIELD is. I heard that this mission was particularly dangerous. So, I guess that means I'm expendable, right? No worries though.... You'll get me back alive, right?"

"Barton, I will not push you into anything you're not---"

"It's fine." Clint cut him off. "This is a job. I'm a duly consenting adult. I no longer have the twink excuse from before. Besides, sir. I trust you." He crossed the room without thinking. He stood in front of Coulson, angling up to look upon the man's face. "I know you won't hurt me."  

Coulson seemed stricken by Clint's words. He stepped away. He was gripping to maintain his professional demeanor. The gears turning in Coulson's head are nearly audible at this point. "You get a safe-word, of course." He announced with a semblance of control. "I believe you can choose something suitable for your speech pattern." 

"Milkshakes," Clint replied after a moment's hesitation. “It'll be hard to say in regular conversation. Plus, it's something that would be hard to miss. I am playing a twenty-something boytoy, right? It'll be good enough. Can't expect me to be high-class and all that shit. I ain't trained for it. So I'm sticking with what I know." 

After a while, Coulson nodded his head. "All right. Mine is  _ reverie _ . So you'll know that we are pulling back because of me and not because of anything you've done." 

Clint looked at him with a sceptical expression. 

Coulson glanced away. "I know that you said you trusted me, specialist. It's... I'm honoured. I just... sometimes, I don't trust myself..." 

There was something there. Something left unsaid but Clint had no idea what it was. He took the first tentative step back then Coulson followed. They covered the span of the room with a few large steps, the space heavy between them. 

Clint went to the bed to check then re-check his gear. He assembled his retractable bow, his arrows, and his quivers. He double-checked his safety glasses with the new purple tint. By the time he was finished, there was enough weaponry to support a small country. He repacked them all with care and precision. He can faintly hear Coulson rummaging around the hotel room. When he finally turns, he saw Coulson facing away from him. He climbed in and did the same. 

"For what it's worth, sir." He whispered into the darkness. "I still trust you." 

He did not see the way Coulson's shoulders stiffen then sag. 

***

The first night was easy. Clint crashed the moment his head hit the pillow. 

It was the morning after which posed a problem.

***

Clint woke up warm, too warm. For as long as he can remember, the heating in HQ was standard at best. It was nothing like the furnace he was currently experiencing. A heavy weight was slung over his arm. He was pressed against something hard, something solid, where all the heat was coming from. He opened his eyes and momentarily froze. 

The room was unfamiliar. He vaguely recognized it to be the room he shared with Coulson. He caught hints of the sleep-warm scent of the man whom he was nuzzled against. Apparently, some point during the night, they had both shifted and now Clint was the big spoon. He was cuddled against Coulson's back, his too short legs stretched out, his arms around Coulson's middle, and his face buried in a dark nest of curls. God, the man smelled amazing. 

_ Shit _ , Clint silently cursed as another part of his anatomy slowly awoke. His attempts to wiggle away only made it worse as he rubbed against the small of Coulson's back. Even in his thick sweatpants, he could feel the heat of Coulson's skin where the sleep shirt had ridden up overnight. He never slept so well while on a mission before. It was barely dawn but he felt like he rested for a days.

He discovered that he quite liked this. The idea of waking up next to someone never appealed to him before. However, right here, right now with Coulson spooned in front of him, the idea interested him very much. Coulson felt like an anchor and a safety net at the same time. His tall lean frame was something that Clint could hold on to when the time came. He liked this. He liked waking up next to Coulson. 

But the moment was ruined when Coulson's breathing changed. 

_ Fuck _ . 

When he attempted to twist away, he realized that Coulson's arms was pinning his down. 

"Ehrm, sir...?" 

Coulson turned, sleep-addled, but said nothing. Without warning, he skimmed his fingers over Clint's arm and curved his palm on Clint's nape. He pulled the younger man into the soft kiss. 

Clint's eyes were wide open. It was, quite possibly, the gentlest kiss in his entire life. No tongue. No teeth. No saliva. It was just a press of closed chapped lips. But he was harder than he’d been in his entire life. Suddenly the cover felt like a million degrees hotter, like his skin would burn or he would combust from the inside out. 

Then, the next second, everything was gone. Coulson came to his senses with a few snappy blinks and pulled away. 

"Bathroom," Clint blurted out before scampering off the bed. He made it to the en suite bathroom in record time. In his fantasies, he pictured Coulson opening the unlocked door and stepping behind him. Long pale arms trap him between the sink and the senior agent's body heat. He would feel the rigid press of a hard cock against his hip and the barest touch on the edge of his ear. 

" _ Barton _ ," would be whispered from behind him. When he looked up, he would see those gorgeous blue eyes staring at him through the mirror. Scorching like a blazing star, hotter than the sun, hotter than anything in his entire life. He would feel it burrowing deep inside him, under his skin, into his heart, until Coulson was a part of him. 

Coulson would be everywhere---touching, tasting, feeling. He would be covered in Coulson's scent---mild, spicy, but deep. No matter how he scrubbed, how long he stayed in the bath, how much he sweated during the op, the scent would never leave him. 

_ " _ Fuck" he groaned through clenched teeth. His bottom lip was dented and chapped and nearly bleeding. He gripped tightly and stroked himself into completion. Amidst the daze, he faintly heard soft grunts coming from the outside. 

He turned the knob and opened the shower. 

Ice cold water stung for only a minute. For the moment, the sharp sting was enough to make him forget about the man just beyond the door. He cursed himself and his faux professionalism. In reality, it was fear that stopped him. He was afraid of breaking the things between them. He refused to ruin the best thing that ever happened to him.

***

The second night was far worse. 

They had spent the day tracking down Yven, who led them to, Shostakov. The pair was definitely involved in handling the nuclear weapons. Yven was the brains while Shostakov was the muscle. Clint and Coulson sent all their intel to the remote SHIELD operating station and went back to their hotel. 

"Barton, a word." Coulson said when the door clicked. Clint was already half-way into the kitchen to raid the hotel mini-bar. "I'd like to apologize for my inappropriate action. I understand if you would like to---"

"Cut the crap, Coulson." Clint snapped. "It's fine! I'm not some fucking virgin that you have to walk eggshells around me. I know how this type of mission goes." He huffed, pulling a bottle of dark amber liquid and down it in one gulp. He wiped the stray drips with the back of his hand. "Besides, I knew that you were never a morning person. You just caught me off-guard this morning." 

"I'm going to bed," he continued, with an irritated groan. "You can either sulk on the couch or take the bed with me. Honestly, sir. It's not a big deal. I'd rather you stop making this awkward for both of us and just get your fucking ass under the fucking duvet so we can  _ both _ sleep in peace. I will not have HQ blaming me if you're sleep-deprived tomorrow." 

To that, Coulson smirked. "I assure you, specialist, that I am in full control of my faculties whether or not I have gotten any sleep." He changed back into his night clothes on the other side of the room. "But..." he turned to look at Clint with an earnest expression. "Thank you. My back appreciates it." 

Clint felt his heart do a summersault. He was the first one to lie down on the bed that night, back turned to hide his awkward embarrassment. He said nothing as the bed dipped behind him. Again, Coulson was like a furnace, emanating enough heat to make Clint sweat beneath the covers. He did not want to move away. 

With great courage, Clint leaned the tiniest bit so their backs would touch. It was like something slotted into place and all the tension left his body. 

"Good night, Coulson." 

"Good night, Barton."

He slept peacefully that night to dreams of the man beside him. He dreamed of hands gently touching him while he awoke, lips worshipping every inch of available skin, and the sweat pooling between their bodies. He dreamed of the voice in his ear and words of love being whispered in the darkness. He dreamed of his own wildly beating heart. 

***

Clint awoke to the muffled sounds beside him. It was still dark and the night was humid. There was the faintest noise coming from beside him. He dared not open his eyes. With his eyesight gone, his other senses went on overdrive and he  _ heard _ Coulson's forcibly even breathing and the steady shlick of something wet. 

He wouldn’t have noticed, he wouldn’t  _ have known _ , he wouldn’t have been any wiser… if he did not  _ know _ what Coulson sounded like in bed… but he did. His blunt fingers dug crescent moons into his palms while he stifled his groans. 

By god, this man would be the death of him. 

His gravestone would read:  _ Here lies Clint Barton, died of blue balls.  _

***

In the end, he did not sleep a wink after that. 

***

The following day, the consequences for his ill-timed insomnia plagued. him. If only he was in shape, if only he was performing at top capacity, if only---then Coulson wouldn't be bleeding from a stomach wound in the backstage of the theatre. If only, he wasn't distracted then he would have recognized Czarina Belova as the girl he met in the train station a few years ago and connected the dots. 

That day, they foiled Russia's plan to steal the nuke-codes but they let Czarina Belova aka Natasha Romanova aka the  _ Black Widow  _ escape into the night. 

***

Clint blamed himself for what happened. 

There were no night vigils, no sitting guard at Coulson's bedside, not even a visit to the medical ward to check if his handler was would make it through. The cut wasn't long but it was deep. It was from a jagged piece of broken glass. 

Clint watched, face blank, as they pulled Coulson into a stretcher and whisked him away on an air-transport. The memory of Coulson---jacket gone, crisp white shirt stained in scarlet, complexion pale like the moonlight---would haunt him forever. 

The moment that SHIELD doctors confirmed Coulson's path to recovery, he set out to make things right.

***

"Why are you so loyal to that man?" Natasha asked him. No formalities were given.  

They were in a hotel in Milan. SHIELD tracked her here. She was good but not yet the best. With time and training, she could be. She was young, younger than Clint, but her eyes and her soul have already seen so much. She appeared just as youthful as when they first met but the edges of her were frayed. 

"He's not a bad man," Clint answered. He stood at the edge of the balcony. An arrow-grapple lay in tangled in the railing from where he climbed. He brought no weapons. He came armed with a way in but no plan out. He could bring her in as penance. 

She placed a hand on her chin. Her green eyes are sharp even in the darkness. "But you've split the blood of good men, have you not?" Her accent was thick and heavy. She said it with no malice nor scorn but in the tone of a simple observer. "He's just another man." 

"And I would spill more." Clint said with a shake of his head. "Because there would not be another him."

There was a long pause. She eyed him with curiosity, then interest, and finally with understanding. Her lips twitch the faintest bit before it curved into a smile. 

"You and I are not so different." She pointed out with the passivity. "We kill because we're told to." 

"Perhaps..." He agreed with reservation in his tone. "But I was already a killing machine when they found me. You were but a girl trained to be a weapon. We are both victims of chance, circumstance, and situation. Yet we turned out differently." He turned away. "I seek a world where what I am is not the ideal, where my experience would not be the children's, where  _ this _ doesn't need to exist. You were programmed for the opposite were you not?" 

It caught her off-guard.

"I want a world without fear." 

Clint offered her his open palm. 

"I don't want to kill you." 

"Neither do I."

This time, her smile was genuine. 

***

Clint arrived in Coulson's office for the debriefing. This morning, he and the ex-KGB assassin walked into SHIELD's front door wearing a pair of baggy clothes. They looked more like college drop-outs rather than highly-skilled ex-mercenaries. Natasha was taken into a holding room to be question by the director. Clint was sent to back to his handler. 

He readied himself for the lashing that was to come. Coulson had every right to sack him for his recklessness. It was outside of the books, without his handler's permission, and he had nearly gone rogue halfway through. But all that didn't matter. To Clint, as long as Coulson's primary goal was achieved, it would be worth losing his job---a parting gift of sorts. 

By the time he reached Coulson's office, it was past lunch. His handler was sitting behind his desk when Clint entered the office. 

"Barton," he deadpanned. He still wore no jacket and his shirt sleeves were pristinely pressed. His hands were clasped together, elbows resting on the table. He observed Clint with years of practiced passivity, There was nothing on his face. "There is much to discuss. Where would you like me to start?" 

Clint took a long moment before he replied. "Let's cut to the chase," he said with an inward sigh. "I'd like to know whether or not I should be packing up my bunk back in the barracks. Everything else, I've written in my report. I submitted it before coming here. It'll be at your desk by end of day."

"I'd like to know why," Coulson pressed, calm as ever. His eye gave a twitch, minute but crystal clear to Clint's sharp eyes. It was a tell that not many people saw---Coulson was restraining himself. 

Clint did not have a definitive answer. Eventually he chose "She's like me" as a reply. "We both got fucked over by the system. I don't think she  _ wanted  _ to kill all those people. I think she  _ needed _ to in order to survive." He scuffed his boots on the floor. "Just like me...so I gave her what you gave me... an alternative." He gave Coulson a tentative look, almost afraid to see the man's face. "Should I... I should just go get my things. For what it's worth, it was a genuine honour working with you, sir." 

"Barton..." said Coulson. There was something in his voice, in his tone, that strung Clint like a well-aimed arrow---straight to his heart. It felt so open, so raw. Clint looked up, needing to see Coulson's eyes. Rich blue pupils were as clear as the sky, brilliant and blue and amazing, making his breath hitch. "What in heaven's name are you blabbering about?" 

"I... uhm... uh..." Clint stammered. Although he has been in this situation before, his nerves remained high-strung. "...I went on my own..." 

"I know." 

"I failed to terminate the Black Widow." he said in lieu of an apology. He hung his head low because he could not bear looking Coulson in the eyes and seeing his soon-to-be ex-handler’s disappointment. 

"No, you haven't." Surprisingly, there was no hint of mocking nor displeasure; it was blank.

"Then... why am I here?" 

Coulson took the top most folder from his file and flicked through it. "Mmm," he hummed. "Here it is." He pushed it towards Clint. Inside lay a photograph and a file of the Natasha Romanova. The first page contained a standard personnel information sheet. At the bottom, Fury's handwritten notes was written:  agent-in-charge Phil J. Coulson . 

Clint blinked. "Sir? I... I don't understand. I already know that." 

"What you fail to realize, agent," Coulson sighed. "...is that you've managed to something that most handlers and some of SHIELD’s more experienced senior agents have failed to do. This is a remarkable feat in itself. You should be proud." He explained with the sides of his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly.

Clint blushed at the compliment. "Thank you, sir." But in the next second, his nerves returned. "So does that mean that I'm  _ not _ getting fired?" 

Coulson nodded. "It means you're not getting  _ fired _ but you are getting suspended as a disciplinary action. When you come back, you'll be promoted a level and shifted to the handler track. This," He pulled back the first folder and handed Clint a second one. “is your new paperwork.” 

"No!" Clint nearly shouted in protest. His face was red. "What if... what if I don't want to go do that? Shit. I'm not good at people, sir. I don't want to  _ handle _ them. I'm good right where I am."  _ Right here with you _ . "I don't think I'll be any good as a handler." He vehemently pushed back the folder to Coulson. 

There had a stare-down which lasted a few minutes. 

Coulson considered it. "Barton, you've gone above and beyond your call in the field. If you do not take the change of career path, then what would you like?" Then he stopped, like he was accessing both Clint and the situation simultaneously. There's something feral behind his eyes. It made Clint's heart hitch and his dick throb. 

"I could kiss you," came so quietly as if it weren't meant for his ears. It made Clint whip around, regardless.

"What did you say?" Because yes, fuck yes, if Coulson was offering, he would like to kiss his handler very much. He wanted to live every wet dream in his fantasies. He wanted---

Coulson looked stunned at his own lapse. His eyes widened and he pushed off the table about half an inch. Then he coughed to cover it up. "How about a reward then?" He offered in lieu of an answer. "I am a firm believer of positive reinforcement rather than retributive justice. I dare say that I am a very liberal handler, in that respect. Since you're opting to stay my asset instead of change tracks, what would you like as compensation?"

"Kiss me," Clint answered on autopilot. How long? How long had he wanted this from Coulson? How many night has he spent jerking off to fantasies about his handler? 

The request broke Coulson's composure. "Ex-excuse me?" 

"Kiss me." Clint affirmed. "Sir," he added after a moment. His face was bright red but he steeled his gaze. "As a reward. That's all I want, Coulson, sir. I want you to kiss me." 

In a heartbeat, Coulson crossed the gap between them, slotting himself into Clint's space as if it were natural for him to do so. With practiced ease, he cupped the side of Clint's space with firm but gentle fingers. Clint's heart skipped a beat because Coulson was here, Coulson was going to kiss him. He couldn't stop the shiver than ran down from his nape down to his tail bone. 

"I thought you didn't want this." Coulson whispered, sounding unsure. "You told me before on the train." 

"No" Clint shook his head. "I've changed my mind. Please, Coulson, kiss me already before I change my mind aga---" His lips are covered before the sentence could be finished. 

A growl escaped Coulson's lips. He kissed like a man on his last breath, pouring everything, giving everything, making Clint feel  _ everything _ from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It was open-mouthed, wet, and demanding. Coulson took control of the kiss like he would an operation and Clint was there to enjoy the ride. They parted their lips and their tongues fought for dominance; where Coulson was experienced, Clint was enthusiastic. Saliva trailed between them when they broke apart. 

"Fuck," Clint breathed out, dazed. 

Coulson looked just as surprised as him. Clint can see everything in crystal clear detail: the flush on Coulson's cheeks, the shortness of his breath, and the slight shine of his red swollen lips. He took it all in and committed it all to memory. He wanted to remember this, if he never got a chance to get it again. He wanted to, at least, have this memory of Coulson and be satisfied. 

"Barton..." Coulson tried to speak but it sounded wreaked. 

Before anything could progress further, Clint turned around and flew from the office, heart beating a thousand miles a minutes. There was no mistaking it---the way he felt when their lips touched. He never looked back for, if he did, he would have seen Coulson absently pressing his fingers to his lips. 

*** 

Clint saw nothing of Coulson for the next month. 

"What's the meaning of this?!" He yelled at the top of lungs as he blew into his handler's office. It was the middle of the day when he received the ominous news. He slapped the thin manila envelope on Coulson's dark wood desk. His kaleidoscope eyes were ablaze. "Why the  _ fuck _ am I getting pulled out of my unit?!" 

"Good afternoon, agent Barton. I see you've finally received the paperwork." Coulson replied evenly. "Is there a problem with your transfer?" 

Clint just came back from another mission. He was having none of the roundabout. He flung himself, as best he could, over the wide desk and clutched at Coulson's lapels. His whole countenance was deadly serious. "You promised me that you would  _ never _ transfer me to another handler!" He rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. "Sir, if this is about Natasha, she came onto me, okay? It just happened. We're two consenting adults and it was completely professional. It did not interrupt with how we work together on the field... So, please, sir, don't transfer me out." 

The information surprised Coulson. "I assure you, agent." He said, shakily. "This is not about your  _ activities _ with agent Romanova. Rather, I think you'd be delighted in the news, if that were the case." 

"Huh, what?" he asked, releasing the lapels. He sunk back to sit on the table. "Then why am I getting transferred?" 

"I assume that you have not yet spoken to agent Romanova about this matter." Coulson waited for Clint to nod before he continued. "You  _ both _ are getting transferred out of your respective units. After evaluation over the past months, it has been accessed that your skills are completely compatible and would be more efficient working together rather than separately. What I mean to say is, Barton, that you and Romanova are to be transferred into a strike team together."

"Then who..." Clint said, suddenly feeling the terror of leaving Coulson's command. "...who'll be my---our handler now?" 

"I will" Coulson reassured. "The Director has allowed me to retain my handler duties despite my promotion. I will be handling Strike Team Delta exclusively from now on." 

"Oh!" Without thinking, Clint leaned in and pecked Coulson lightly on the lips. "Thank you, sir!" He scampered off the desk with a bounce. "I need to tell Natasha before she goes all WW2 in her bunks!"

Too preoccupied in his joy, he completely missed the look of longing that was on Coulson's face. 

***

"Are you ever going to tell him?" Natasha prodded in a low voice. They were off-comms until midnight. 

They were in the middle of a mission in Australia. It was a drug kingpin that needed to be brought down. Rumours about their personal relations have greatly been exaggerated by the mills. While they did  _ sleep _ together, they only  _ slept _ , platonically.  They realized that their relationship was better as friends. It was never about romance in the first place. She was leaning against his arm, playing his eye candy for the night.

As part of Strike Team Delta, they were sent all over the world for all sorts of missions. They were quick to establish themselves as one of the better three-man teams in the agency and, somewhere along the line, created a reputation for being the best at what they do. Natasha's charm, Clint's humour, and Coulson's wit were a new legend in SHIELD. 

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Tash," Clint answered in mock innocence. He pretended to be entranced by one of the large Ming vases displayed inside a glass case. The exchange was to happen inside the mansion of an rich Aussie. It was big, almost like a castle in size. In response to his dodge, she kicked him playfully on the shin. 

"I'm talking about Coulson," she clarified with a mix of humour and seriousness. "Who else would I be talking about?" 

Clint laughed like she had whispered a joke. "There's nothing between Coulson and I... nor has there been anything ever..." 

"But you wish there was." She pressed with the barest hint of humour in her tone. She had dutifully been the best partner he ever had in SHIELD. She was also the most perceptive one. After meeting Coulson for the first time, after their sexual encounter, Natasha placed two and two together. She pointed it out to Clint on multiple occasions---how much the archer pined over their handler. 

They were being monitored through the CCTV feeds, hacked into and streamed by SHIELD tech teams to the remote operations base. Clint allowed the traces of his anguish to show on his face. "It's not just sex." He told her with a wry smile. 

"I know" She replied, just before all hell broke loose. 

Bullets. Knives. Arrows. 

Every projectile possible went flying into the air as the high glass ceiling collapsed. The ground shook beneath them, shaken by the large helicopter blades swishing in the air, a mighty gust of wind wreaking havoc. Armed troops, in black professional uniforms, rappelled down with great speed. Heavy boots thumped and stomped through the floor dirtied by broken glass. 

Clint spotted Natasha, a few meters away from where he was thrown. She was already whispering into the hidden receiver on her bracelet. She crouched down, red flaming hair falling to her face, with one long leg extended and the other bent. She glanced up to meet his eye. He nodded back at her and side-swooped the nearest assailant. 

He disarmed the man and commandeered the weapon. His instincts were on overdrive. He rapidly fired, hitting one guy after the other---head, chest, shoulder, leg, thigh, knee---bullets hitting anything as long as the target went down. When he lost bullets, he scrambled for the next one and repeated the process. But more and more men were coming. Natasha was lost in the crowd. 

"HAWKEYE!" he heard someone yell. The first thing he felt was pain, a sharp, white-hot pain on his side. Then, just like that, everything went pitch black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was less porny, but more plot-ty. Well, at least, their relationship progresses a bit further, so that's something.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint dreamt.

In his dream, he saw Coulson. It was that very first night, in Ireland with Bronson, when he discovered how  _ invested _ Coulson was with his assets. Everything was the same except that he took Bronson's place. Instead of all-fours, he was lying down on his back, legs spread wide and wanton. Coulson loomed over him with a warm expression and his dark blue eyes twinkling with the moon light.

God, he was so hard.

_ "Barton... _ " Coulson said his name differently from before. There was no trace of professionalism at all. It was overwhelmed with lust, mirroring his carnal expression. " _ You're so fucking... tight, _ " he twisted his lips on the last word to emphasize.

Clint arched his back and moaned, uncaring for the world around him. He knew that DePaul was snoring loudly above them and Grittes was gritting his teeth on the bunk below. He vividly remembered where he was supposed to be in this dream. His eyes shot up to the top bunk of the opposite bed. Bronson was there frozen in shock. A smug feeling rolled over him. He wanted to smile because  _ yes, Coulson was his _ for the night.

" _ Eyes on me, specialist _ ." Coulson demanded with another firm thrust of his fingers inside Clint's ass. Jolts of wild pleasure coursed through his spine. It was like the very core of his being was being played and all his limbs, all his muscles, every single cell reacted to the touch. He obeyed.

Even in the darkness, he could not bear the intensity of Coulson's gaze. He saw his own reflection through the blown pupils. He opened his mouth and let out a groan. He tugged on Coulson's threadbare t-shirt then the sleep pants. He clawed at it. For once, he thanked his circus-trained flexibility as he peeled the pyjama bottoms off Coulson's legs with his feet and toes.

It felt like velvet, slippery, smooth velvet. He rubbed Coulson's cock with trembling hands, relishing at the moan elicited from the other. If he could, he would have bent down and tasted the sticky pre-cum that was pooling underneath the foreskin. But for now, he humoured his whims by playing with the clear liquid that dripped onto his stomach.

"Come on, Coulson," he said, sounding foreign to his own ears. "I need you to fuck me." He repeated Bronson's words from memory but added his own. "Please, sir, I've wanted you for ages. I---"

With a gut-wrenching pull, he was doused in reality. This was not what he wanted. No, not like this. This was everything he  _ didn't _ want---a fake, one-off, with his handler. It wasn't just sex. God, it wasn't. It was something more. He just did not want to sleep with the older man, he wanted to  _ date  _ him, to be with him, to do all the clichéd rom-com movie things with him.

Clint wanted it. He wasted it all so much but it felt wrong. It was all a lie he induced inside his own head to keep him sane. He sprung up, eyes wild and hazy, skin prickled with sweat.

Coulson was there. The real live Phillip J. Coulson was standing beside him with a face that made his chest explode in all sorts of mushy gay feelings.

"S--sir?" He rasped out. His throat stung like it was grated on metal.

"Oh thank heavens, you're going to be fine." Coulson's voice came in barely a whisper. It lacked all the calmness from before. Rather, it was exhausted and weak and  _ relieved _ . He touched Clint's face, Clint's cheek, Clint's jaw. He basically touched everything he could reach, checking the bruises and seeing the damage. "Thank god, Clint, thank god that you're alive. Sitrep, agent."

It was an information overload but he managed to speak. "Banged up but alive." he replied with cheek. That seemed to lighten up the tense mood and colour returned to Coulson's face. A gentle hand held him close.

"Rest" the older said gently. "Natasha is also safe. So you can rest for now, Barton."

Clint let his body go limp against the older man. He closed his eyes again. Then, a feather-light touch caressed his head, almost like a phantom hand. He was vaguely aware that he turned and nuzzles into it. At the moment, he gave no shits, because  _ Coulson smelled amazing _ \---sweat and must flooding into his nostrils. It felt like he was coming home.

"I promised," he would forget hearing Coulson say,  "to always bring you back alive."

***

Clint closed his eyes.

***

It started with a presence, silent and unmoving. It grounded him. It made him feel safe. It felt like his own personal angel was guarding over him. He knew, he just knew, that he would make it out of this place alive. The presence, it must have been a person, was always there as he struggled in and out of consciousness, watching over him.

Next came a voice, firm and gentle, calling out his name. It called him. It led him farther and farther away from the ever impending darkness that threatened him. It soothes his uneasiness, his worry, his fear. It helped him tide over the worst nightmares, reminding him that he needed to get back to where he belonged.

For the longest time, it was his only beacon of hope. Simple words, often incoherent, and sometimes pieces of stories. He knew  _ who _ the voice belonged to. It was Coulson.

Then suddenly, it was all gone and Clint shot with a jolt of pain. White hot, searing pain. His side  _ burned _ from the inside-out.

He panicked.

He couldn't breathe.

Too much. Too soon. Too quick.

His worn-out, drugged-up, overworked brain couldn't comprehend what was happening.

He felt life draining out of him.

Fuzzy white noise was deafening him.

He heard screams.

His skin prickled with fire-ant bites.

He was going to die!

\--- _ without ever telling Coulson that he--- _

Clint, for the life of him, could not recall whether the next part had all been a dream.

"Hawkeye," a voice broke through all the noise.

"Barton," it whispered in his ear.

"Clint," Coulson called out to him, "You need to calm down. Let the drugs heal you."

Clint  _ clung.  _ He clung to the mere thought of Coulson---his memories, his fantasies, his dreams. He clung to Coulson--- the mental image, the echoes of his voice, the remnants of his scent. He recalled in vivid detail their very first kiss---in the early morning sun, the warmth beneath the sheets, the curve of Coulson's back against his chest, and those dry chapped lips---then their second---the beating of his heart, the excitement filling his chest, the anticipation that filled the air, and the  _ thrill _ when their lips pressed together.

He clung, unwilling to let any of it go.

"Good," Coulson praised, "that's good, Clint. Stop fighting it."

He was wrapped with something warm, nestled against something firm, and surrounded by something soothing. Everything he could heard felt inconsequential. He had nothing to fear, not here, not while Coulson was holding him so tenderly... like he was special. He was kept safe from anything that might hurt him---except from his own self.

No, he did not allow himself to forget, he was  _ not _ special.

Coulson would do this for any of his assets.

***

While in delirium, Clint forgot one thing.

Coulson no longer handled other assets.

***

He failed to notice that the  _ fuckings  _ had stopped.

***

Coulson wasn't around when he woke up. Instead, he was alone in, from what he recognized, was the SHIELD medical bay. It was similar to the room they'd once kept Coulson in. White walls, bare furnishings, unscented sheets, nothing was descript. He slowly let his senses come online one by one. He mostly felt numb except for his achy shoulders.

Natasha strode in with a bag of takeaway. Thai, from the smell of it. She took one good long look at him before stepping out of the room, cursing in Russian. The food was left forgotten on the plastic chair beside the door. When she came back in, she was frowning at him.

"You idiot," was the first thing she says. She grabbed him by his flimsy hospital gown collar and kissed him on the mouth. He completely froze. It lasted only for a second. She pulled away and hissed, "Don't you ever scare me like that again, you dummy."

"I..." Clint rasped out. "--should be resting." Coulson cut him off. The man, seemingly from nowhere, entered the room with a stern expression. He turned to Natasha with a nod. "Agent, you are relieved of your post. You have a briefing with Hill in conference room C."

This wasn't the man who had spent days cuddled beside him.

"Welcome back to the land of the conscious, agent Barton. You are in the SHIELD medical facility. You were shot in the hip and the bullet lodged into your pelvis. They operated to remove the fragments. You have been in a medically induced coma due to massive internal bleeding and clotting."

"Sir," Natasha acknowledged with a salute. To Clint she said, "I'll come see you again after my mission, okay? You better be lucid by then."

The past god-knows how many days, came crashing back to him when she was gone. He immediately missed the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy between them. It was like an ice cold bucket of water. It must have all been a dream. He never wanted to go back to that dark abyss so much in his life.

"How do you feel?" Coulson asks him. It was stiff but concern was evident in his cerulean blue eyes.

"Banged up but alive." He responded with cheek. It felt like a repeat from recent past. Someone, it eased the tension between them. "My shoulders are a bit stiff." he blurted out without thought. He tried to move it but grimaced and stop. "Yep," he added, "it's still pretty sore, I guess."

"Maybe I can make it better?" It wasn't directed at Clint. There was no firmness in the tone. Rather, it sounded more like Coulson was thinking aloud, too quick to be filtered out, almost instinctual. Clint's traitorous limp dick twitching at the thought. Thank god for small miracles; he still had a blanket draped over his lower half. He couldn't respond. He just stared, wide-eyed, at his handler.

Coulson seemed to come back to himself. "I mean, uhm," he stammered, "is there anything that I could do to, erhm, help you?"

Clint became painfully aware of how Coulson stood rigidly by the door. It pained him to realize that this is the most time they've spent in a room together since  _ the kiss  _ happened. The outburst about getting transferred did not count. He was too furious to notice anything beyond being scared shitless that Coulson had thrown him away. Now, he was faced the man of his dream who was still too far out of his reach.

"I could eat," he finally said after sometime. In reality, he really wasn't hungry, but the takeaway smelled delicious. It was the only excuse he could think of to diffuse the situation. If there was anything he'd learned about his handler over the years, it was to give the man something to  _ work for _ , an incentive, so he wouldn't tense up. His flimsy plan worked.

The hard-line of Coulson's shoulders loosened. "Sadly," he said with his tone overly caring and affectionate. "You won't be able to take any hard foods at the moment. You're on a strict liquid diet until doctors rotate you back to solid foods."

"Hhmp," Clint scoffed and pointed. He blamed the drugs, the good drugs. "So I guess pizza is out of the question?"

"Yes," he replied looking as pitiful as he sounded whenever he denied Clint anything, "No pizza."

"Not even blended pizza?" Clint grinned like a big goofy idiot because  _ good drugs _ made him fuzzy and unguarded. "You can put it some hot sauce and make it more gooey! Pizza shakes!"

Coulson let out a chuckle. It made Clint's heart flutter.

"Yeah," Clint said in awe of his own genius, "Pizza shakes, sir, why hasn't anyone funded it yet?" He started to laugh at the idea. "It'll be the newest superbowl thing. It'll replace  _ beer _ ! No more alcohol but way more fun!"

This time Coulson laughed.

"That," he wheezed, fitting it between giggles, "I missed that." If he hadn't been embarrassing before, Clint's motor mouth gone off and kicked him in the nut  _ again _ .

"I missed you too, Barton," Coulson replied, even if it was a bit brisk. He backed-up and edged to the door. "I'll see what I can do about food. Something light but flavourful. Soup here tastes like water." Then, he turned around and left the room. The admission, itself, was left hanging in the air.

Clint listened as the steps quickly faded like Coulson bolted into a run.

Maybe, just maybe, if he closed his eyes, Coulson would come back.

***

Time continued.

Missions did not cease.

Clint flitted in and out of consciousness.

He never  _ once _ saw Coulson again but he  _ knew _ the man was there.

From Natasha, he would later find out that Coulson never left his side until he was signed out. He had a gut feel. He saw the one too many cups, far too many take-out containers, and once a striped navy blue tie around his hospital room. But it wasn't until she confirmed it, that he was certain about his extrapolation.

***

Coulson was there when he was discharged.

The primary bullet hole cut wasn't all that bad. It pierced through some muscles but nothing too important. If it was a regular bullet at a regular place, he would have been out within the week. Unfortunately, it had shrapnel and the placement was tricky. What made it difficult was the dent on the bone and the surgical cuts made to reach it.

He needed therapy to fix it. It was a bitch recovery period. He lost weight during the coma which resulted in losing muscle tone as well. He was weak when he was first discharged. He barrelled straight onto Coulson's chest when he got off the bed.

"Easy, Barton," Coulson murmured into his hair, one arm secure on his lower back. "Don't push yourself."

"Just wanna get out," Clint groaned in protest, "I'm getting stir-crazy here, sir, are you here to bust me out?"

With a laugh, Coulson readjusted the hold over Clint's shoulders. "You're getting a wheelchair."

Clint paled in response. "No, sir, please not a wheelchair!" He thinks of the narrow space between the bunk beds in distress. He'll be banging and clanging against the wooden frames! He'll be all over the place! He would never live it down.

"Barton," Coulson's voice was calm and reassuring, "at ease."

His body was so finely tuned to Coulson's commands that it relaxed before Clint realized it. He eventually slumped against the backrest, wondering if he imagine the heat of Coulson's thighs behind him, and sulked while his handler navigated them through the maze of corridors. Corridors which Clint did not recognize.

"Sir," Clint spoke warily, "This isn't the barracks."

"Well spotted, Barton. Good to see that your eyesight is undamaged. Your spatial awareness might be a little lax but I guess that can be attributed to the remaining drugs in your system. That should clear-up in a few days. "

Clint swore that Coulson's tone was playful and sarcastic. But he couldn't see the man, so he wasn't all that sure. It could be the leftover drugs playing tricks on his mind again.

"You're a level six agent," Coulson continued, unmindful of Clint's internal struggle, "You've been granted private quarters." They rounded the corridors to a different set of elevators. Coulson pressed his badge to the scanner and pressed '27' on the panel door. They arrived to a deserted dimly lit hallway with a large ceiling to floor window at the end.

Clint let Coulson give him the tour.

"This is your room," Coulson announced, wheeling Clint in-front of a non-descript door. All the doors looked exactly the same. There was nothing to tell one from the other. One had to count in order to figure out which room was which. Inside, there was a single bed, a dresser, a tiny desk, and a shelf. "I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of bringing your things here."

"No," Clint breathe out, overwhelmed by the  _ care _ that a simple action made. his voice hitched, "Thank you, sir. This is great."  

Coulson automatically helped him onto the bed, easing the feet rests down, arms under Clint's pits, and hauling his limp body onto the mattress. Clint was breathless by the time it was over. He felt like he had just run a mile despite the simple action. Or maybe, it was because Coulson had just been all over him after week of being so distant.

"Hey," he whispered without thinking. One hand already latched onto Coulson's risk. The man obediently obliged and leaned closer. "I mean it," he said with false bravado but great determination, "I know that this goes beyond your role as my handler. Not many people will do this for their assets. So really, sir, thank you."

He tugged once more and pressed their lips together.

It was over in a heartbeat.

Clint's face flushed in embarrassment.

"For you, Clint," Coulson replied, gingerly pushing away stray bangs, "anything. Best get to sleep, agent. Natasha is getting lonely in the field. The comms are so quiet without your chatter bugging up the lines. Makes for a boring way to pass a mission." He went so far as to run his warm palms over Clint's face, manually closing the archer's eyelids.

Clint laughed and followed. He fell asleep with a small smile on his face.  

It wasn't a rejection.

***

That night he dreamt again.

He dreamt of Coulson entering his room at night and squeezing into bed. An arm draped over his torso, protectively curled around his hip, and held him.

***

His body healed.

***

Within no time, Clint was approved by medical to get back on the field.

***

The mission took them to York, England.

Natasha was walking along a busy street. She wore a slouchy grey turtle neck, lace-up black jeans, chunky black boots, and a faux fur jacket. Her height and aura was perfect for her cover---laid back, extremely smart, graduate school student. She pulled off the look like a seasoned professional. The only thing odd was her dirty blond tresses.

"Looking good, Widow," Coulson said over the comms. "Hawkeye, confirm your visual."

"Visual confirmed. I've got her." Clint answered when she walked into his field of vision. There was a beat. "Hey, why does she get to play dress-up while I get stuck here in the damp roof again?" he complained in jest while he kept his watch.

He's been back for months after making a full recovery. Strike Team Delta was back with vengeance. Within the month of his return, they closed the Banner case once they found him in India. Since then, they've gone and completed countless mission as a team. They had never been better.

He eagerly waited for his rebuff. When he came back, he did so with every ounce of life inside his body. He talked on the comms, delivered the kill shots, and saved a few orphans. But he was not sent undercover again. It became Natasha's primary role.

"Because I'm prettier," came Natasha quirky reply. She hid her lips with a gloved hand. She smiled at people around her and winked at the boys looking her way. No one was any wiser save for her team. She was good like that, the acting thing, coming from her performance days.

"Yeah?" Clint challenged, adding some snarky snort. "I think it's because the gender roles in society have made people to be more inclined to lower their guard around women."

"Tss," came her irritated tone. "Are you saying I'm weak,  _ bird _ ?"

Clint chuckled. "No," he replied, "I'm saying that---"

"---you're pretty," Coulson cut in without warning. "Sedan. Government plate. 500 meters," he warned. "Abort and pullback." The pair heard furious typing in the background as they moved out of their respective positions. "Rendezvous at alpha," he ordered right before something crashed.

"Shit!" Clint cursed loudly over the comms. He was rappelling off the wall with a grappling arrow. "Shit. Shit. Shit." He stepped onto the ground in the middle of two buildings. It was a narrow passage lined with A/C units and useless rickety fire-escapes. "Aww, me, no."

"Hawk," Natasha hissed, "He didn't say the code. He can handle it on his own. We have our orders." She wove into the crowds. She plucked a coffee tumbler from an empty table and a book that was on display. She fished out a phone from her bag and placed it on her ears.

"Listen," she said, as if calming a toddler. "He will be  _ fine _ . He's tougher than he looks."

"I know," Clint answered through gritted teeth. He went about cracking his joints as he peered at the long obstacle course in his way. With a huff, he said, "Come on, first one there gets to choose their bedroom."

***

Natasha, unsurprisingly, was there when Clint passed through the safehouse threshold. She was out of the fur coat and changed into a cotton tank top. She sat in the dining room with her feet propped up on the table. She held a gun trained on the door. She was, also, eating some kind of fruit tart.

"I chose the auxiliary bedroom," she announced in lieu of a greeting. She tossed him a tart. "You guys are sharing the queen bed. I want to sleep alone.”

He caught it with a open hand and munched. "Any word on Coulson?"

"You guys are sharing the queen bed. I want to sleep alone." She repeated. It was answer enough. When he didn't respond, she tossed him the gun and stood up. "I am taking a shower and going to sleep. Wake me when he comes back."

This time, Clint did not miss her purposely using  _ when  _ as opposed to  _ if _ . He was grateful for the show of confidence. He nodded at her and took her spot. This was the part he hated most when a mission went pear-shaped---the waiting, the  _ not  _ knowing. He listened to her stomp into her room and the squeak of the pines when she opened the shower.

The comm in his ear was silent.

***

Clint lost track of how long he stayed on-guard. His instinct alerted him to the turn of the knob. He momentarily froze until he recognized the visage of Coulson walking into the door. The man looked worse-for-wear in a rumpled suit, some char on his sleeve, and soot on his neck.

"Oh thank fuck," Clint breathed, letting the gun drop onto the table as he rushed to Coulson's side. Relief immediately washed over him. The fishbone down his throat was flushed away. "Thank fuck, you're alive." He caught his handler by the armpits just as the man collapsed. He hauled the man into safehouse and dead bolted the door.

"Oh god Phil," he murmured, worrying over his handler's face and looking for any signs of pain. "What happened to you?"

"MI6," Coulson responded weakly. "My nest was compromised. I had to burn the laptop." He chuckled and coughed. "I ended up burning the entire building."

"Building?" Clint's eye widened in disbelief. "That should have been on the news!"

Coulson, seemingly getting well rested by the second, managed a lazy grin. "The government probably paid-off the networks and newsites  _ not _ to publish any reports. It was their old intelligence agency building. It would be an embarrassment that I was even able to get in there and use their systems."

"Sometimes, I forget that you're such a badass, sir." Clint mused while he stroke down Coulson's back.

"Worried about me, agent?" Coulson teased. It may or may not have been muscle memory but Clint swore that, just then, Coulson had snuggled closer in his embrace.

"Of course I was," Clint was babbling. He _knew_ he was babbling and possibly bearing his heart and soul to a man who didn't feel the same way. But, at the moment, he didn't care. He was just so _relieved_ that Coulson had come back to them at all. "Of course I was worried, sir. You nearly missed a check-in! You never miss a check in." It was worse than his stint in medical because it was _Coulson_ who was in danger just like the honeypot mission in Italy. He kept on talking and he knew half the things were non-sense.

"It's silly. I know that you can handle yourself on the field. I know you weren't always _just_ _another_ paper pusher. I know because I was _there_ but I just _had_  to be sure that you were going to come back." He talked and talked and talked. When his throat finally hurt and his mouth finally ran dry, he noticed that Coulson's hand was stroking his head.

"Thank you," was the only thing that Coulson said about the babble. They stayed like that, wrapped in each other's arms, Coulson pinned by Clint's mass against the door, and let the world fall away. Their breathing fell into sync and so did something else. Something deep, a connection, bringing to the surface what was underneath before---

"Are you boys finished?" Natasha questioned, now in sleep clothes, with her arms over her chest. She leaned against the wall with a smirk. "Cause I just ran a bath in the master's bedroom. If you don't hurry, it's doing to get cold. I think it's the last of the hot water."

Clint moved away with a blush. Coulson sagged against him.

"I may," said the older man, "need some assistance getting to the bathroom. My legs feel like noodles."

Clint laughed and hauled his handler over his shoulder.

***

The bathroom was steamy when they entered. Not only had Natasha run a bath but she had also  _ prepared  _ it---oil, flora, and bubbles. It could possibly be an old seduction technique left-over from her days in Russian or she was trying to be a romantic. At the moment Clint could have cared any less because Coulson let out a low moan at the sight.

"That looks divine," Coulson said in approval, "Natasha really knows this kind of stuff, doesn't she?" He had a soppy expression on his face that makes Clint's gut churn.

Clint grunted, childishly. He chided himself internally because he had no right to be jealous. Yet still, he wanted to be the reason to see that look on Coulson's face. "Wouldn't know," he answered gruffly, "she doesn't do this stuff for me."

Coulson made a noncommittal hum. "Maybe you should start asking for things that you want." He sat on the toilet seat cover and fumbled with his buttons.

The archer made no reply. He watched Coulson's uncoordinated, and loosing, battle with his shirt buttons. With a sigh, he went down onto his knees in front of the other man and started working on the dusty leather shoes.

"Hey," Coulson complained, "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping you get in the bath. You're taking too long." Clint huffed as he pulled his handler's first shoe. He plastered on a playful grin to hide just how much he longed to be doing this in a different capacity. "You, sir," he pointed an accusatory finger at the man above him, "are wasting what's left of the hot water. So you better get your white bum into the tub."

Coulson laughed, sounding heavenly and carefree despite the tiredness in his eyes. He pulled off his tie, shucked off his jacket and shirt, then heaved the plain white shirt over his head. When he was bare from waist-up, he began unbuckling his belt on autopilot.

Clint, embarrassed and turned-on by the sight of his handler  _ stripping _ , stood up way too quickly and hit his head on the towel holder. "Ouch!" He yelped, palming the sore spot on his head. He tried to tiptoe out of the bathroom. He could wait until the man was finished to take his cold shower. God knows, he needed it before getting into bed with Coulson tonight.

"Where are you going?" Coulson cut him off at the pass. "Strip."

"Wh--what?" Clint sputtered, blood rushing to two places at one. It was a wonder how he didn't just faint on the spot. "Strip, sir?"

Coulson gave him a face. He had his hands on the hem of his pants, holding it up. "Like it or not, Barton. You stink  _ pretty bad _ . I don't think Natasha intended this overly  _ fragrant _ bath just for me." He gripped the dark fabric precaution sly and added, "Didn't you say that this was the last hot water? If you're okay with it, we can share the bath. It's big enough for two."

"Oh," Clint choked on the single syllable. "Y--yeah," he nodded in agreement, "Okay."

At his consent, Coulson dropped trousers and---"Oh," Clint mouthed again---he was wearing a jockstrap.

Clint congratulated himself on not falling face first on the tile or having a nosebleed. What he did get, however, was an inappropriate erection that would be hard to hide. Lucky for him, Coulson had already turned around and was stepping into the tub. Underwear forgotten on the floor, he eyed Coulson's round little backside with lust.

"Barton," Coulson's voice broke through his thoughts. "Are you washing or not? This water won't be hot for long. Think of it as a decontamination shower," the other man presses. "Or you can get out of the bathroom so I can clean myself without being self-conscious by your eyes."

That last part snapped Clint into action. Decontamination, he thought to himself, right. He removed his clothes mechanically, baring his body, erection and all. Coulson, bless him, said nothing about the leaking hard flesh that bobbed against Clint's stomach.

"Oh jesus, fuck," Clint moaned at the first touch of hot water. He sunk down, unable to stifle another groan. Coulson was right. The water was perfect. "Fuck, sir, this is  _ amazing _ ," he curled his tongue on the 'z'. The bath was, as it turns out, a slight squeeze with two bodies. It was all awkward limbs and accidental bumping.

"Stop," Coulson hisses when Clint kicked his side again. He caught the assaulting feet by the ankle and pulled until Clint's foot was tucked behind him, sole against the stone ceramic tub. "There, now do it with the other one so can both  _ fit _ ! I'm bruised enough as it is."

Clint awkwardly laughed and complied. They ended up face-to-face, side-by-side, feet tucked against the other's side. They were touching in so many places; shin-to-rib, thigh-to-leg, leg-to-thigh, and rib-to shin. It was surprising easy and comfortable once they shame had gone. They sank deeper into the water, bending their knees, opposite elbows touching.

The water was warm. But it paled in comparison to the heat of Coulson's skin against his.

It was strangely intimate.

***

When the water cooled, they scrubbed off and got out. They dressed in comfortable silence, bodies relaxed but minds adrift. Clint hesitated, for a moment, from slipping underneath the covers. It wasn't their first time sleeping in the same bed. They'd done so on several Ops in the past. Yet, somehow, something felt different now.

Coulson seemed to sense it. "Barton, for christ's sake," he said from his side of the bed, "quit thinking and get in. No, don't think, stop it, stop over thinking. We've been dancing in circles for god knows how long. I'm  exhausted. I just ran out of a burning building. My body aches in places I don't want to think about. I just want to go to sleep. But I can't, not with you lingering like someone kicked your puppy,"

There was a beat then he grumbled and pulled the covers off. "You," he pointed at Clint, "get your ass inside this bed. Or, so help me, I will kick Natasha out of her so I can sleep in bed!"

"Sir," Clint jumped in without a moment's hesitation.

"Good," Coulson sighed and draped the duvet around them. He angled his body toward Clint, curling into a half-ball. "Go to sleep, Barton. We will talk in the morning."

***

Clint stayed awake. He stared into the darkness and contemplated on the things that he emotions built-up in his chest. He had never felt anything like this before. He had never longed, yearned, wanted another human being the way he did Coulson.

It was different.

It was new.

It scared him shitless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda want to end it here. 
> 
> @WitchWarren, I think it fills the prompt by now, yeah? Clint knows all about the boys and how much he wants it. So yeah. Hope you liked it
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have more ideas, [ INSPIRE ME ](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr!


End file.
